Flingo
16th February 2007, 12:23 PM
Rescued Post
Adrian 9th September 2006 11:24 AM
There's very little mention of comic verse here. I'll offer up Coward and Nash, but any others are most welcome. But please, no Roger McGough.
I can't remember this one by John Hegley exactly, but it's one of my favourites:
From Edinburgh by British Rail
To Bristol Temple Meads.
You dont have to change your underwear
But you have to change at Leeds.
I've Been to a Marvellous Party
Noël Coward
Quite for no reason
I'm here for the Season
And high as a kite,
Living in error
With Maud at Cap Ferrat
Which couldn't be right.
Everyone's here and frightfully gay,
Nobody cares what people say,
Though the Riviera
Seems really much queerer
Than Rome at its height,
Yesterday night —
I've been to a marvellous party
With Nounou and Nada and Nell,
It was in the fresh air
And we went as we were
And we stayed as we were
Which was Hell.
Poor Grace started singing at midnight
And didn't stop singing till four;
We knew the excitement was bound to begin
When Laura got blind on Dubonnet and gin
And scratched her veneer with a Cartier pin,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
I must say the fun was intense,
We all had to do
What the people we knew
Would be doing a hundred years hence.
Dear Cecil arrived wearing armour,
Some shells and a black feather boa,
Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb
Made of bits of mosaic from St. Peter's in Rome,
But the weight was so great that she had to go home,
I couldn't have liked it more!
People's behaviour
Away from Belgravia
Would make you aghast,
So much variety
Watching Society
Scampering past,
If you have any mind at all
Gibbon's divine Decline and Fall
Seems pretty flimsy,
No more than a whimsy,
By way of contrast
On Saturday last —
I've been to a marvellous party,
We didn't start dinner till ten
And young Bobbie Carr
Did a stunt at the bar
With a lot of extraordinary men;
Dear Baba arrived with a turtle
Which shattered us all to the core,
The Grand Duke was dancing a foxtrot with me
When suddenly Cyril screamed Fiddledidee
And ripped off his trousers and jumped in the sea,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
Elise made an entrance with May,
You'd never have guessed
From her fisherman's vest
That her bust had been whittled away.
Poor Lulu got fried on Chianti
And talked about esprit de corps.
Maurice made a couple of passes at Gus
And Freddie, who hates any kind of a fuss,
Did half the Big Apple and twisted his truss,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
We played the most wonderful game,
Maureen disappeared
And came back in a beard
And we all had to guess at her name!
We talked about growing old gracefully
And Elsie who's seventy-four
Said, 'A, it's a question of being sincere,
And B, if you're supple you've nothing to fear.'
Then she swung upside down from a glass chandelier,
I couldn't have like it more.
The Party Next Door
Ogden Nash
I trust I am not a spoilsport, but there is one thing
I deplore,
And that is a party next door.
I am by nature very fond of everybody, even my
neighbors,
And I think it only right that they should enjoy some
kind of diversion after their labors,
But why don't they get their diversion by going to the
movies of the Little Theater or the Comédie
Français or the Commedia dell'arte?
Why do they always have to be giving a party?
You may think you have heard a noise because you have
heard an artillery barrage or an avalanche or the
subway's horrendous roar,
But you have never really heard anything until you
have heard a party next door.
At a party next door the guests stampede like
elephants in wooden shoes and gallop like
desperate polo players,
And all the women are coloratura sopranos and all the
men are train announcers and hogcallers and
saxophone solo players.
They all have screamingly funny stories to tell each other.
And half of them get at one end of the house and half of
them get at the other end of the yard and then
they yell to each other,
And even if the patrolman looks in from his beat they
do not moderate or stop,
No, they just seduce the cop.
And at last you manage to doze off by the dawn's early
light,
And they wake you up all over again shouting good
night,
And whether it consists of two quiet old ladies
dropping in for a game of bridge of a lot of
revelers getting really sort of out-of-bounds-like,
That's what a party next door always sounds like,
So when you see somebody with a hoarse voice and a
pallid face and eyes bleary and red-rimmed and
sore,
It doesn't mean they've been to a party themselves, no,
it probably means that they have experienced a
party next door.
MarkC 9th September 2006 02:32 PM
I like this one, seen on a poster in a tube station (do London Underground still do "Poetry on the underground"?) many years ago:
Celia Celia
When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk around High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.
Adrian Mitchell
elfstar 9th September 2006 03:41 PM
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
Eight o’clock at night on a Saturday,
Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Coming to town double quick.
They rendezvous in front of a pillar.
Tracey’s tall like Jonathan Miller.
Nicola’s more like Guy the Gorilla,
If Guy the Gorilla were thick.
Their hair’s been done. It’s very expensive.
Their use of mousse and gel is extensive.
As weapons, their heads would be classed as offensive
And put under some kind of a ban.
They’re covered in perfumes, but these are misnomers.
Nicola’s scent could send dogs into comas.
Tracey’s kills insects and dustbin aromas,
And also gets stains off the pan.
Chorus:
But it’s their night out.
It’s what it’s all about,
Looking for lads, looking for fun,
A burger and chips with a sesame bun.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of living it up, painting the town,
Drinking Barcardi and keeping it down,
But it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday night.
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can than terrible crunching and clatter be?
It’s the cowboy boots of Nicola Battersby
Leading the way into town.
They hit the pub, and Tracey’s demeanour
Reminds you of a loopy hyena.
They have sixteen gins a rum and Ribena,
And this is before they’ve sat down.
They dare a bloke from Surrey called Murray
To phone the police and order a curry.
He gets locked up. It’s a bit of a worry,
But they won’t have to see him again.
They’re dressed to kill and looking fantastic.
Tracey’s gone for rubber and plastic.
Nicola’s dress is a piece of elastic.
It’s under a heck of a strain.
Chorus:
But it’s their night out.
It’s what it’s all about,
Ordering drinks, ordering cabs,
Making rude gestures with doner kebabs.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of weeing in parks, treading on plants,
Getting their dresses caught up in their pants,
And it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday night
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that terrible slurping and splatter be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Snogging with Derek and Kurt.
They’re well stuck into heavyish petting.
It’s far too dark to see what you’re getting.
Tracey’s bra flies off, how upsetting,
And several people are hurt.
Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that motheaten pile of old tatters be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Getting chucked off the last Ninety-Two
With miles to go and no chance of hitching,
And Nicola’s boots have bust at the stitching,
Tracey laughs and says, "What’s the point bitching?
I couldn’t give a bugger. Could you?"
© Victoria Wood
Somewhere between a comic song and a verse but I do love this
Flingo 11th September 2006 11:39 PM
Wendy Cope always makes me chuckle:
The Loss
The night he moved out was terrible
That evening she went through hell
His absence wasn't the problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.
So true!
And on the song versions - Jasper Carrott has many a good lyric.
Adrian 9th September 2006 11:24 AM
There's very little mention of comic verse here. I'll offer up Coward and Nash, but any others are most welcome. But please, no Roger McGough.
I can't remember this one by John Hegley exactly, but it's one of my favourites:
From Edinburgh by British Rail
To Bristol Temple Meads.
You dont have to change your underwear
But you have to change at Leeds.
I've Been to a Marvellous Party
Noël Coward
Quite for no reason
I'm here for the Season
And high as a kite,
Living in error
With Maud at Cap Ferrat
Which couldn't be right.
Everyone's here and frightfully gay,
Nobody cares what people say,
Though the Riviera
Seems really much queerer
Than Rome at its height,
Yesterday night —
I've been to a marvellous party
With Nounou and Nada and Nell,
It was in the fresh air
And we went as we were
And we stayed as we were
Which was Hell.
Poor Grace started singing at midnight
And didn't stop singing till four;
We knew the excitement was bound to begin
When Laura got blind on Dubonnet and gin
And scratched her veneer with a Cartier pin,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
I must say the fun was intense,
We all had to do
What the people we knew
Would be doing a hundred years hence.
Dear Cecil arrived wearing armour,
Some shells and a black feather boa,
Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb
Made of bits of mosaic from St. Peter's in Rome,
But the weight was so great that she had to go home,
I couldn't have liked it more!
People's behaviour
Away from Belgravia
Would make you aghast,
So much variety
Watching Society
Scampering past,
If you have any mind at all
Gibbon's divine Decline and Fall
Seems pretty flimsy,
No more than a whimsy,
By way of contrast
On Saturday last —
I've been to a marvellous party,
We didn't start dinner till ten
And young Bobbie Carr
Did a stunt at the bar
With a lot of extraordinary men;
Dear Baba arrived with a turtle
Which shattered us all to the core,
The Grand Duke was dancing a foxtrot with me
When suddenly Cyril screamed Fiddledidee
And ripped off his trousers and jumped in the sea,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
Elise made an entrance with May,
You'd never have guessed
From her fisherman's vest
That her bust had been whittled away.
Poor Lulu got fried on Chianti
And talked about esprit de corps.
Maurice made a couple of passes at Gus
And Freddie, who hates any kind of a fuss,
Did half the Big Apple and twisted his truss,
I couldn't have like it more.
I've been to a marvellous party,
We played the most wonderful game,
Maureen disappeared
And came back in a beard
And we all had to guess at her name!
We talked about growing old gracefully
And Elsie who's seventy-four
Said, 'A, it's a question of being sincere,
And B, if you're supple you've nothing to fear.'
Then she swung upside down from a glass chandelier,
I couldn't have like it more.
The Party Next Door
Ogden Nash
I trust I am not a spoilsport, but there is one thing
I deplore,
And that is a party next door.
I am by nature very fond of everybody, even my
neighbors,
And I think it only right that they should enjoy some
kind of diversion after their labors,
But why don't they get their diversion by going to the
movies of the Little Theater or the Comédie
Français or the Commedia dell'arte?
Why do they always have to be giving a party?
You may think you have heard a noise because you have
heard an artillery barrage or an avalanche or the
subway's horrendous roar,
But you have never really heard anything until you
have heard a party next door.
At a party next door the guests stampede like
elephants in wooden shoes and gallop like
desperate polo players,
And all the women are coloratura sopranos and all the
men are train announcers and hogcallers and
saxophone solo players.
They all have screamingly funny stories to tell each other.
And half of them get at one end of the house and half of
them get at the other end of the yard and then
they yell to each other,
And even if the patrolman looks in from his beat they
do not moderate or stop,
No, they just seduce the cop.
And at last you manage to doze off by the dawn's early
light,
And they wake you up all over again shouting good
night,
And whether it consists of two quiet old ladies
dropping in for a game of bridge of a lot of
revelers getting really sort of out-of-bounds-like,
That's what a party next door always sounds like,
So when you see somebody with a hoarse voice and a
pallid face and eyes bleary and red-rimmed and
sore,
It doesn't mean they've been to a party themselves, no,
it probably means that they have experienced a
party next door.
MarkC 9th September 2006 02:32 PM
I like this one, seen on a poster in a tube station (do London Underground still do "Poetry on the underground"?) many years ago:
Celia Celia
When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk around High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.
Adrian Mitchell
elfstar 9th September 2006 03:41 PM
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
Eight o’clock at night on a Saturday,
Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Coming to town double quick.
They rendezvous in front of a pillar.
Tracey’s tall like Jonathan Miller.
Nicola’s more like Guy the Gorilla,
If Guy the Gorilla were thick.
Their hair’s been done. It’s very expensive.
Their use of mousse and gel is extensive.
As weapons, their heads would be classed as offensive
And put under some kind of a ban.
They’re covered in perfumes, but these are misnomers.
Nicola’s scent could send dogs into comas.
Tracey’s kills insects and dustbin aromas,
And also gets stains off the pan.
Chorus:
But it’s their night out.
It’s what it’s all about,
Looking for lads, looking for fun,
A burger and chips with a sesame bun.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of living it up, painting the town,
Drinking Barcardi and keeping it down,
But it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday night.
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can than terrible crunching and clatter be?
It’s the cowboy boots of Nicola Battersby
Leading the way into town.
They hit the pub, and Tracey’s demeanour
Reminds you of a loopy hyena.
They have sixteen gins a rum and Ribena,
And this is before they’ve sat down.
They dare a bloke from Surrey called Murray
To phone the police and order a curry.
He gets locked up. It’s a bit of a worry,
But they won’t have to see him again.
They’re dressed to kill and looking fantastic.
Tracey’s gone for rubber and plastic.
Nicola’s dress is a piece of elastic.
It’s under a heck of a strain.
Chorus:
But it’s their night out.
It’s what it’s all about,
Ordering drinks, ordering cabs,
Making rude gestures with doner kebabs.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of weeing in parks, treading on plants,
Getting their dresses caught up in their pants,
And it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday night
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that terrible slurping and splatter be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Snogging with Derek and Kurt.
They’re well stuck into heavyish petting.
It’s far too dark to see what you’re getting.
Tracey’s bra flies off, how upsetting,
And several people are hurt.
Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that motheaten pile of old tatters be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Getting chucked off the last Ninety-Two
With miles to go and no chance of hitching,
And Nicola’s boots have bust at the stitching,
Tracey laughs and says, "What’s the point bitching?
I couldn’t give a bugger. Could you?"
© Victoria Wood
Somewhere between a comic song and a verse but I do love this
Flingo 11th September 2006 11:39 PM
Wendy Cope always makes me chuckle:
The Loss
The night he moved out was terrible
That evening she went through hell
His absence wasn't the problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.
So true!
And on the song versions - Jasper Carrott has many a good lyric.